til Constance came
home from school?"

"I have not forgotten," said Miriam, in a choking whisper. A surge of
passionate hate swept over her even now, against the dead woman whose
pretty face had swerved Ambrose North from his old allegiance.

"And I shall not forget," he answered, kindly. "I am on the westward
slope, Miriam, and have been, for a long time. But a few more years--or
months--or days--as God wills, and I shall join her again, past the
sunset, where she waits for me.

"I have made things right for you and Barbara. Roger Austin has my
will, dividing everything I have between you. I should like your share
to go to Barbara, eventually, if you can see your way clear to do it."

"Don't!" cried Miriam, sharply. The strain was insupportable.

"I do not wish to pain you, Sister," answered the old man, with gentle
dignity, "but sometimes it is necessary that these things be said. I
shall not speak of it again. Will you give me back the check, please,
and show me where to date it? I shall date it to-morrow--I cannot bear
to write down this day."

* * * * *

When Barbara came down, her father was sitting at the old square piano,
quite alone, improvising music that was both beautiful and sad. He
seldom touched the instrument, but, when he did, wayfarers in the street
paused to listen.

"Are you making a song, Father?" she asked, softly, when the last deep
chord died away.

[Sidenote: Too Sad for Songs]

"No," he sighed; "I cannot make songs to-day."

"There is always a song, Daddy," she reminded him. "You told me so
yourself."

"Yes, I know, but not to-day. Do you know what to-day is, my dear?"

"The seventh--the seventh of June."

"Twenty-one years ago to-day," he said, with an effort, "your dear
mother took her own life." The last words were almost inaudible.

Barbara went to him and put her soft arms around his neck. "Daddy!" she
whispered, with infinite sympathy, "Daddy!"

He patted her arm gently, unable to speak. She said no more, but the
voice and the touch brought healing to his pain. Bone of her bone and
flesh of her flesh, the daughter of the dead Constance was thrilled
unspeakably with a tenderness that the other had never given him.

"Sit down, my dear," said Ambrose North, slowly releasing her. "I want
to talk to you--of her. Did I hear Aunt Miriam go out?"

"Yes, just a few minutes ago."

"You are almost twenty-two, are you not, Barbara?"

"Yes, Dadd